walk of all walks

Oct 31, 11:30pm: On the way back home to visit family, I took a handfull of fresh pcubes.

Oct 31, 11:30pm: On the way back home to visit family, I took a handfull
of fresh pcubes. 30 minutes later I began walking through my
hometown. At 5am I found a terminal and, feeling pretty
nutty still, transcribed as much as I could get down into an email to myself.
This is an edited transcript from those notes.

==

A midwest campus in fall, on Holloween night, no less, is the best place on
God's earth, it seems to me tonight, to trip.

What I got tonight, was the walk of walks, the one you always hope you'll have when you go home. Color in the trees, mild mist in the cool night air, and a shimmer in the sounds.

In the mind: Clarity, insight, memories, beauty.

In the body: Along the chakras, over the hours, was a tickle that gradually
works its way up the chakras, first as a need to laugh, yes laugh
and quench me. Then a tickle in the other above the line chakras,
the throat, for truth and tears. Tears for others, not that they don't
see your stupid mushroom trip, but that we all have to act out this
painful life.

Finally, after many a tickle in the eye, i'd say the tickle is in the
soul.

The tickle made me want to consider the questions we are so often
distracted from in daily life: Why are you here? Have you finally let
go of your fear? Are you ready for the next wonders, the next
countless bounty, the next rush of love?

I walked around for hours, thinking about things, looking at things. But
mostly meditating. I found myself in an outdoor theatre, and I did some
ceremonial work there which must have looked like I was nuts from anyone
else's perspective.

Asked a lot of questions. Trying to remember them for later.

Trip indications: my voice sounded like it was being fed through
a flanger. Lots of warmth through my chest and stomach. I was
sweating like a pig. I had a little vertigo. After a couple hours, the
telltale spangles appeared around streetlamps. I also had a sensation
for the last couple hours like I almost wanted to puke or burp. It was
mild this time. Not too much trouble.

For me, this is not about visuals, not about hallucination, sex, or any other
bullshit. This is about having the external world and its constant noise
just tweaked enough so that you really know it's noise, which lets you
concentrate on WHY YOU are on this PLANET.

Of course SATAN and the government and whatever other bullshit conspiracy
you can invent as your bogey-man wouldn't want you to leave off the noise
of the outside world and really engage in the conversation of WHY DO YOU
THINK YOU'RE HERE?

It's just like Screwtape said, the outside world and all its stupid threats
and fake treats and temptations are nothing to an awakened soul
who knows why it's alive.

So, the best conversation you can imagine is taking place. Not once did I
feel scared, threatened or overwhelmed. I paid attention. It was a good
conversation.

One refrain which came to me several times was this: A man comes to me, wanting to fight. The women want to protect me, but I know why he's come.

Don't know what that's about.

And I am a co-creator with God. I am ready to take my place again in the hall of expression. And I thank God for my vision.

I walked in among a huge array of enormous drainpipes arranged
symetrically in a construction site. I saw the light dance among them,
the sound focusing and ricocheting through and again around
them as walkers passed by, their heads appearing and re-appearing.
I knew I was protected, able to manoeuvre in the darkness and to
observe but not get involved while on my little journey.

I noticed the question of what the fuck does it take to
be having a level 2 popped into my head. I was then at 1am feeling
lightheaded and slightly dizzy for the first time.

Later I said to myself internally that the way you know
you're having a level 2 experience is that while things have until now
looked or felt strange, level 2 means that you may think you're beginning
to look or sound a little strange to others, which is maybe a level 2
indicator.

A thread of a story about a man obsessivlely chewing at his skin on his
finger. At the end, it all peels off the right way, and he can let go of
being born in the middle of this shimmeringly beautiful brain.
I felt the onrush of souls in the sky, on this nifght when they should be
their most visible.

But so clear.

During one conversation I had with God (the Gods?) I was acutely
aware that the bulgy clouds rolling along overhead in the moist
autumn sky were for me the onrush of souls, heading through
the Universe and looking down to us on earth as they made their
journey. I felt I was talking with them - like they knew exactly what
was up for me, that they patiently waited for me to discover my
lessons in this life, but they were also eager for me to join them.

Remembered that spring night playing tennis with icy S. (the cold cold
alkie,) and I was testing sobriety then with tentative fingers. During this
summer night game of tennis, I tried to be a good obedient student, but I
really felt called that night into a dance going on behind me on the
shadowed lawns behind the blazingly lit courts. The spirits earnestly
called to me to give up this competition with this chilly woman and go to
the real party. I went back toward that meadow dance tonight. I saw for
the first time what I thought for a while was cause and effect between
that invitation I politely but firmly declined, and the one I could not
ignore which had happened, I think, months earlier in the frozen snow?
Both were invitations to a woodland place. for sacred reasons. an old
invite. tucked away, perhaps, for many lifetimes by better men than I,
toiling in the newly found fields of American ambition. Tuckered plumless
and pummelled by the rakishness of that fickle American sickle. The sly
ole scythe. They kept to their earthly plowing, these ancestors of mine,
as the faeiries invited them to this dance season after season. Did my
grandfathers dance with the creatures of imagination and spirital animism
sometime before turning their last acre of sod over with their tired old
hands? I don't know.

I must have stood at this terminal and typed for an hour steady. I
just didn't want to forget anything.

Anyway, when I typed these notes and felt satisfied I would be able to
recall most of the real nuggets when I read them, I went up to bed and
slept. I awoke only a few hours later and was sufficiently refreshed. Best
of all, I had retained my travellogue, which I now offer you, good friends.